|From the book The Wild Rose|
|Legends and Fantasies|
(1976 - 1978)
Death of Alexis the Roman Saint
|You garden, patrician garden,|
you marble, grafted on the heart,
you rustle over the dream-water,
over the Mediterranean youth,
sharing your last beauty
with an adopted orphan.
Yet petals hurl themselves down,
the water blossoms,
and the columns bloom so
that the heart beats from shame.
Yet can a person guess
why this garden has been planted,
why they abandon us in grief,
and call us back in joy
and say: “say farewell”,
and surround us with our past again?
Yet a window looks out on the garden.
As in a feeble-minded reflection
he recognizes his new look
in his restraint and greed.
The threads believe and ache:
“Surely God does not circulate like poison?”
He circulates, like poison does in the blood,
and being not dangerous to heathens,
He rips only the hearting heart,
like a love letter.
The heart pleads:
I sense a wild descent
of another capital. Before that one
you are a restrained humiliation,
the suburb of a second youth,
crying in the family, a hired howl.